by Lynda Aicher
The cold night air bathed her heated cheeks and washed her sweating skin in a needed dose of chilly freshness. Her first deep inhale speared her lungs with icy, bitter knives, yet she took another and still another as she made her way across the snow-covered lot to her car.
Relief turned to shivers by the time she started her car and turned onto the road, desperate to get away before Rylie decided to follow her. But then, why would he?
They’d both gotten what they’d wanted—hot sex with no strings. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that. She repeated that to herself as she drove home.
There was no need to look back or overanalyze the evening. She’d spent years relying on her instincts to make a move, and that was exactly what she’d done tonight. And she’d scored. Her snort of laughter burst into the car and caught on a choked grimace.
That was so lame. She couldn’t redo what was done and she wouldn’t apologize for her actions either. She had no reason to.
She sucked in a breath and switched the heat down, the fans quieting so she could hear the radio. School, degree, leave—those three things were all she needed to focus on. It was likely Rylie had already forgotten her. Which was exactly what she was going to do—forget him.
Him, hockey and everything that pulled her backward. She was moving forward, and neither of those was in her future.
Her throat constricted, but she swallowed past the tightness, blinking rapidly. Hockey wasn’t her goal anymore. Wasn’t the thing that defined her anymore. She had new goals. New dreams. A career to make outside of hockey. And staying away from the sport was the only way she knew how to get them.
Chapter Five
Dylan stared at the closed door, deep breaths doing nothing to calm the seething jumble of frustration that sucked away every molecule of satisfaction that’d filled him just minutes before.
“Fuck.” The quick bite of the curse hung in the room and solved nothing. His mind spun with not only the memory of the fast, hard fuck he’d just finished, but the volley of the entire evening. Samantha had put him on edge and never let him come off. Even now, he was wound tight and left stunned and bemused in her wake.
His bark of laughter surprised him. Hell. She’d schooled him again when he’d thought he’d owned this game.
The door swung open, and his gut clenched for a half second before the owner of the bar entered. Bart froze, sniffed and frowned. His thick brow jerked down and he hit Dylan with a glare that almost had him reaching to remove his hat out of respect—which he wasn’t wearing. Damn it.
Bart glanced behind him, closed the door and scanned the rest of the office before he rested back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. His gray beard hid most of the old acne pockmarks that pebbled his cheeks, and his belly strained the buttons on his flannel shirt, yet he held an air of expectation that reminded Dylan of every coach he’d ever had. The man was easily old enough to be his father—maybe grandfather—and the appraising look rattled him when there was no reason it should.
“Played the wrong girl tonight?” Bart’s deep voice rumbled through the quiet to nudge at Dylan. Another dig he was too tired to deflect. Somehow, he’d failed this man though Samantha had been the one who’d laid down the terms of the evening.
The defensive fuck you was on his tongue before he bit it back. Literally, he clenched his tongue between his teeth and clamped his lips tight.
Fuck it. He wasn’t the first man to use this office for a hookup. Bart’s discretion was another reason the place was popular with the players. Was everyone subject to the man’s scrutiny after the fact, or was he the only lucky one?
Dylan swiped his wallet off the desk where Samantha had dropped it and emptied out his cash. He’d taken two hundred out of the money machine after practice that day. He handed it all to Bart. “This should cover the tab. Apply the tip as you want.”
Bart eyed the offered money before he took the cash and stuffed it in the front pocket of his shirt. “She isn’t a bunny.”
Dylan clenched his teeth and stared at the door, almost willing the damn thing to open and free him from the inquisition hell. With one swift inhale, he flashed Bart a casual smile and tipped his head in a good ol’ boy way. “No, she sure isn’t,” he drawled, letting the man take what he wanted from the statement.
Bart chuckled, his belly bobbing over his low-slung belt. He stepped aside without another word, and Dylan took the escape. The steady thump of his cowboy boots on the hardwood was masked by the rock song that played over the speakers. He reached up to tilt his hat lower and cursed at its absence for the hundredth time since he’d entered the restaurant.
This was what he got for leaving it behind. Even hanging with friends, he couldn’t let his guard down. There were too many sharks waiting for him to flinch, falter and make a mistake.
He inhaled the biting cold and started his truck before the door slammed closed. Getting out of there was priority number one. Scratch that—forgetting Samantha Yates was priority number one.
He swiped his hat off the passenger seat and settled it snugly on his head. Its comforting presence settled through him to wipe out some of the frustration that still balled in his chest. He flicked the radio volume up and relaxed into the worn seat of his truck. Like his hat, it was one of the things he hadn’t upgraded since he drove it off his granddaddy’s ranch when he was seventeen years old. He might’ve lived with his aunt, but his granddad had provided the financial support for Dylan’s dreams.
Brown, boxy and rusted with a hundred-thousand-plus miles of ranch life scratched and dented into its sides. There hadn’t been a winter storm or sub-freezing temp that had shut this girl down. He patted the dash and stroked the faded plastic like the truck could feel his affection. Not once in the seven years they’d been together had she failed him, which was a better track record than most things in his life.
He spent the twenty-minute drive to his house picking apart the evening. From the second Samantha stole the puck to when she walked out of the office. Where exactly had she tripped him up? Her moves had been as smooth on the ice as off, yet he’d missed the off-ice ones when they were being played.
And goddamn, that had been some of the hottest sex he’d had in a long time—maybe ever. Hookups weren’t new to him, not by a long shot. He had more experience with them than dates and had no shame in it either. Hockey was his priority and everything else came second, especially romance.
He chuckled into the darkness of his cab. Romance had not been Samantha’s intent, not tonight. That woman had met his first challenge and never backed down. That was something he could respect, admire even. Hell, it was hot as fuck.
The chorus of Lee Brice’s “That’s When You Know It’s Over” penetrated his thoughts, the song blasting through the upgraded sound system. He flicked his tongue over his sore lip, pausing to prod at the welt on the side. His mind tracked right back to the hellcat with sky-blue eyes who’d given it to him. He didn’t need the list defined in the song to know if he and Samantha were over. Hell, they’d never started, so there was nothing for him to be over.
Too bad he couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.
*
“Holy fuck.” Dylan cursed into the bathroom mirror, chin lifted to get a good look at the bruise. The dark red mark on the side of his neck was glaring, obvious and would be impossible to hide.
She’d fucking marked him.
Oh, they were so not over.
The hickey was the about the size of quarter and sat midway between his jaw and collarbone. How in the hell had he let that happen? Marks were not allowed. He had a game tonight—televised too. Like he wanted people commenting on that instead of his game, and someone would. He had no doubt of that.
He rubbed at it and only succeeded in making it darker. Shit. He could already envision the ribbing he was going to get the second he stepped into the locker room. He was so done and cooked. His teammates would roast him alive and save the leftovers for tomorrow.
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He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights when he’d gotten home last night. He’d left his boots and hat by the door before he’d trudged to his bedroom, stripped to his underwear and crawled into bed, only to toss and turn with thoughts of Samantha in his head.
Now it was too late to do anything about the damn mark. Trying to hide or cover it would only draw more attention to it.
He hung his head and gripped the edge of the sink. Another well-played move by Samantha. One he’d have to return at some point.
A morning news show played on the TV in the great room, the coffee was still brewing and he was filling a water bottle with ice when his phone pinged with a text. The first was followed by two more in quick succession before he set the bottle down. One look at his phone screen had his stomach dropping to his toes.
He was tempted to ignore the messages, but another one came through as he stared at the dark screen.
Holy shit. You were so schooled! The text from Karver included a link. Dylan intuitively knew what it was. Or could pretty accurately guess.
Morbid curiosity had him unlocking his screen and selecting the link from his text messages. It went to a YouTube video and sure enough, there was him and Yates on center ice. The seconds ticked by on the play bar as he watched, the actual events duplicating in his mind. He hit Replay three more times as he compared what he remembered to what he saw. The moves, the switch play, the shift of her weight on her skates and exactly where she’d beaten him.
Despite what he said about chivalry, she had definitely outplayed him in that meet-up. His drive to win would’ve had him at least beating her on their time bet—if he’d been able to.
He turned off his phone, grabbed his water and headed downstairs to his gym. A long bike ride was exactly what he needed. It was part of his pregame ritual, and Samantha Yates wasn’t going to mess up that or his game tonight.
Period.
*
“The Glaciers defense is getting a workout tonight,” the sports announcer said during a pause in the game. “Grenick and Sparks are knocking the puck back, but Rylie and Cutter are scrambling to keep the puck out of their zone.”
“Colorado’s offense has attacked hard and fast all game,” the second announcer added. “And Rylie’s been reacting slowly. His play’s sluggish tonight.”
“Could have something to do with that mark on his neck,” the first announcer heckled. On cue, the camera zoomed in for a close-up of Rylie where he sat on the bench. Sweat-drenched and scowling, the dark red hickey on the side of his neck was easy to spot above the line of his jersey. The camera panned to three women holding a Ride ’em Cowboy sign with Rylie’s jersey number on it, the insinuation obvious.
Sam sat back, mouth gaping. Holy crap. She’d given him that and now it was being mocked on national TV. She closed her eyes and cringed. Enduring the ribbing he’d probably received from his teammates over that mark was part of the sport. This was a whole different level of public embarrassment.
Chances were he wouldn’t be forgetting her so fast now. At least she wasn’t the only one replaying last night’s events. A smile grew and she shifted on the couch as her mind launched back to him, face full of passion, his dick heavy in her hand.
“What’s that grin for?”
Sam looked to her housemate, grin still in place. “Just thinking.”
Lacy Burkhouse was a lanky six-foot-two volleyball player and a fifth year senior at U of M, like Sam. But unlike Sam, she’d been redshirted her freshman year, so she was still eligible to play volleyball this school year. The four-year play eligibility rule set by the Collegiate Athletic Council served to keep someone like Sam from playing college sports for years. And she would if she could.
If only to keep playing competitively.
“About what?” Lacy asked. “You only get that look when you have something devious going on in your head.”
Or sex, apparently. An unwanted wave of heat flushed through her at the memory of giving Dylan the hickey. The hot romp in the office had replayed in her head all day, despite her efforts to not think of it. Or him. Especially him.
Sam arched a brow, smirking. “Really? Maybe I’m just happy.” The rough snort that came from Lacy spelled out exactly how much the other woman believed that. “What? I’m happy.” Sam cut her gaze to the action on the screen and away from her friend’s knowing scrutiny.
She was happy, darn it. Content at least.
“Sam,” Lacy said. “You know I love you, right?”
Oh, that wasn’t good. Her stomach clenched and she resisted the urge to sigh. Nothing that started with that was ever good. Sam rolled her head to give her friend an indulgent glare. “But,” she supplied dryly.
“But…” Lacy leaned in, concern wrinkling her brow. “You’ve been angry about something for months.”
Sam opened her mouth to protest but slammed it closed again. She worked her jaw, stewed on the statement for a moment, chest cinching. “What do you mean?”
“Ever since you finished with the USA team last spring,” Lacy said, her brown bob brushing her cheeks when she shifted forward. “You haven’t been yourself. You go through the motions of class and life, but your spark is gone.”
“My spark?” She wasn’t a damn sparkler, but had she really been that bad? She twisted the strings of her hoodie around her fingers and stared at the TV. Sure, she was frustrated at the whole forced retirement thing, but angry? Sad maybe. Empty, that would work, which was why she’d been taking extra classes since summer so she could finish her degree and move on.
Lacy sighed and slumped back in the dingy yellow chair they’d bought at the secondhand store. “You’re pretending everything’s fine when we can see it’s not.”
Sam sat up, irritation spiking. “Who’s this we?” And why were they talking about her behind her back? She was fine.
“Your friends. You remember us?” Lacy gestured at herself, eyes wide.
“Of course I remember you.”
“Then how come no one ever sees you anymore?”
“I’ve been busy with school,” Sam huffed and sulked back in the couch, arms crossing over her chest. “My grades are important if I want to get into the best master’s program.” Because second best wasn’t good enough. Had never been. She studiously ignored her well-meaning friend and let the consistent chatter of the announcers filled the silence.
Finding a house with people who didn’t play hockey had been a priority when she’d returned to campus. It’d been a change of pace that’d matched her new focus. But no matter how hard she tried not to, she still missed the sport. A lot.
Last year had been all about training and the women on the USA team, most of whom she’d played with or against at some point before. The four years before that had been much of the same. Different women, different team, same focus.
But always hockey.
“I’m fine,” she finally said, glancing at Lacy. “Just working through some things.”
“For six months?”
She glowered at her friend. “Do you have a point?” No one could give her a paying hockey career, and talking about it—being around it—only reminded her of that. But saying that out loud would come across as bitter and resentful. Something she was trying really hard not to be.
Lacy stared her down before shaking her head and standing. “Apparently not.” She stalked from the room, her long strides pounding up the stairs moments later.
Great. Sam dropped her head against the back of the couch, regret burning in her chest. She was ready to overdose on that today, and now she was scaring off her friends.
What am I doing? She only had to remember yesterday to know she wasn’t thinking clearly. From the hockey dare to the rough office sex, the entire day was a colossal exclamation point on how off track she was.
There was even a video to prove it. The one Meg had texted her bright and early this morning. She’d never intended for her face-off with Rylie to go viral. Stupid smartphones and the inte
rnet. Of course someone would record and post it. Especially when the little show of hers had been in public.
At least it wasn’t the office stunt being broadcasted across the internet.
She had no doubt her father would give her an earful on respect and sportsmanship if he saw it. As if she should’ve let Rylie win. No, that wasn’t it. She never should’ve challenged him in the first place. The video looked exactly like it was. She’d had an agenda. Had been showing off with the intent to put the man in his place, which she’d done, but at what cost?
She rubbed her eyes and winced at the pain that shot from her temple to pierce her brain. Damn headache that wouldn’t go away all day. The Glaciers were down by two in the third period, and for the first time in her life she had no enthusiasm to root for either team.
And she claimed nothing was wrong. Maybe she could keep lying to herself, but others weren’t so easily fooled.
She clicked off the television and pressed her palms over her eyes. Five months. That was all she had left in Minnesota. Too bad she hadn’t been able to put her pending psychology degree to work on herself. Walking away from everything having to do with hockey had seemed like a solid plan last May. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She was moving on with her life as best she could. It was just taking longer than she’d intended. Or wanted. And it was a thousand times harder than she’d thought it would be.
Chapter Six
The water peppered Dylan’s head with a hot wash of relief. He closed his eyes, held his breath and let it sluice over his skin, finding a quiet moment to simply be. No comments or digs, no expectations or losses.
His lungs protested and he gasped for air as he swung his head back, wiping droplets from his face. Now wasn’t the time or place to linger and lament. They’d lost the game, and the locker room was subdued after the defeat. Worse than that, his game had sucked. Two nights in a row with too little sleep hurt him. He’d been behind on almost every play. His reflexes were delayed and he’d second-guessed too many plays, one that had resulted in a score by the other team. He’d had bad games before, but he didn’t need one now.